


i always saw you reaching and catching stars

by splinters



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M, Slow Burn, U.S. Città di Palermo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-04
Updated: 2018-06-04
Packaged: 2019-05-18 05:01:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14846283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/splinters/pseuds/splinters
Summary: And then Paulo Dybala appears, shuffling into the room as though uncertain if he should follow. Ezequiel is up to greet them both almost instantly, embracing Paulo with a hug and welcome, telling him that it’s good to have him here. Behind them, Perinetti wipes his brow, and Franco hasn’t moved.Paulo looks different from how Franco remembers—still young, still boyish in his features, but slightly more of a man. Franco once only recognised his face from clipped Nacional B highlights and grainy newspaper pictures, and he’d been surprised to find he looked even younger in the flesh. They’d spoken briefly at an award ceremony back home, crowded together for interviews and pictures with local news outlets, and Franco still remembers the way Paulo would rest his hand on his back, quietly wishing that he wouldn’t.(or, The Paulo and Franco Show, from beginning to end.)





	i always saw you reaching and catching stars

For a solid minute after he wakes up, Franco doesn’t remember where he is.

Overlapping voices seep into his dreams and he opens his eyes to find his face shoved into a pillow, the folds in the fabric cutting into his cheeks. There’s a film of sweat coating his back, cold in the open air where his t-shirt has hitched up, and his legs kick to free themselves from the confines of the sheet. He turns his head and finds it’s light in the room, causing him to inch his face back onto his pillow with a little groan. He blinks against it, eyes sticky with sleep, and feels the drag of his eyelashes on the fabric.

“That’s fine,” one of the voices says, and Franco vaguely recognises it as Ezequiel. “I’ll just get this one up and we’ll be down soon.”

The reply is too soft for Franco to catch, even as he rolls his head up on the pillow, trying to hear better. Ezequiel is closing the door over with a heavy click by the time Franco has located him in the tiny room, already half-dressed in his training gear. It’s only then that Franco remembers they’re in Bolzano for a pre-season training camp, and his legs burn as testament to the memory as he moves them again, finally managing to sit up completely.

“Time to get up, Mudito,” Ezequiel says, passing by the bottom of his bed and slapping a hand down on his exposed ankle as he goes. Franco recoils away from the touch. “Dybala is here.”

Crawling from the fog of sleep, Franco momentarily forgets why this should concern him. Pushing his knuckles into his eyes, he grumbles, flopping back into bed with every intention of staying there. He doesn’t need to go, not really. Ezequiel is enough of a welcome party for anyone. The kid is from Cordoba, though, Franco remembers, and something about the prospect of some familiarity wills his body out of bed and into a feebly alert state.

Franco trudges behind Ezequiel as they make their way downstairs to where they’ll be having breakfast later. The room is empty, and none of their other teammates have yet surfaced, and Franco wonders if it’s too late to turn back and go back to his room. Instead, he settles on fidgeting with his phone, sinking into a chair while Ezequiel perches himself on the edge of the table, waiting.

“He’s good, isn’t he?” Ezequiel says.

“I would hope so,” Franco answers, not looking up from his phone.

Ezequiel asks nothing more. He’s learned in the short time they’ve been teammates that there’s no point in drawing Franco into a full-blown conversation, especially not at this time in the morning. They slip into a silence; comfortable on Franco’s part, but not so much on Ezequiel’s. Every time Franco flits his gaze up towards the other man, he’s staring helplessly at the door, willing Dybala to appear out of thin air.

*

It is Giorgio Perinetti that Franco sees first, entering the room with a low acknowledgement of them both. He stands by the door keeping it open, that weary look of a man in constant fear of being led to the gallows on his face, and then Paulo Dybala appears, shuffling into the room as though uncertain if he should follow. Ezequiel is up to greet them both almost instantly, embracing Paulo with a hug and welcome, telling him that it’s good to have him here. Behind them, Perinetti wipes his brow, and Franco hasn’t moved.

Paulo looks different from how Franco remembers—still young, still boyish in his features, but slightly more of a man. Franco once only recognised his face from clipped Nacional B highlights and grainy newspaper pictures, and he’d been surprised to find he looked even younger in the flesh. They’d spoken briefly at an award ceremony back home, crowded together for interviews and pictures with local news outlets, and Franco still remembers the way Paulo would rest his hand on his back, quietly wishing that he wouldn’t.

“—and this is Franco.”

Franco finally stands at the mention of his name and wanders over, slipping his phone into his pocket as he goes. He purses his lips together and Paulo stares up at him, grinning.

“We’ve met,” Paulo says, sounding victorious. “How are you?”

It’s lack of a better answer that causes him to merely shrug his shoulders in response. Regardless, Paulo looks strangely crestfallen, and Franco can’t understand why. His attention slips away soon enough, however, and Ezequiel begins translating between Perinetti and Paulo, leaving Franco to hover on the outskirts of the group and scratch idly at his stubble. He wishes he’d stayed in bed.

Naturally, they end up at a table together for breakfast. Paulo spends most of the time bouncing in and out of his seat with every new teammate that wanders in sluggishly, clapping his hand on their shoulder and introducing himself with an enthusiasm Franco doesn’t think himself capable of. When he’s not doing that, he’s laughing and eating, his body curling towards Ezequiel like an old friend as he speaks. Franco is so lost in the interaction that he forgets to sugar his coffee.

*

“Mudo, keep Paulo right,” is what he’s told during training.

Preseason training is like moving in a nightmare, the air thick like dulce de leche. Out of the corner of his eye, Franco sees Paulo, following closer than his own shadow and bumping up against him as they stop for water. By the time they’re done, Franco’s tongue feels as though it’s coated in chalk and he stands with his face to the breeze, eyelids fluttering shut and his mind turning off.

“Man, your footwork is _immense_.”

Franco eyes open just in time to watch Paulo pull a bib up over his head. He stands dumbly for a moment, processing the compliment as modest embarrassment bursts and blooms in his chest. His teeth catch his bottom lip as he reaches around to scratch at his damp nape, shrugging a little. Paulo just keeps watching him, expectant, and his face stains red on reflex.

“Thanks,” Franco says eventually. “You—thanks.”

Paulo lingers for a moment, and then he’s off, running to catch up with Ezequiel.

*

They don’t become friends. Not straightaway, at least.

Franco is only human, however, and he cannot resist the gravitational pull that brings him to Paulo, closer and closer each day, until he finds himself perched on the edge of Paulo’s hotel bed, PlayStation controller in hand. Paulo is stretched out behind him, a steady stream of curses coming with the dig of his bare toes into Franco’s back when he scores. Franco sort of hates it, but he doesn’t move.

“When we get back to Palermo, will you show me around?” Paulo asks suddenly.

Franco twists his head around until his chin grazes his shoulder. Paulo is sitting up a little more now, leaning back on his elbows. Franco’s eyes settle on the thin folds of Paulo’s bare stomach for a moment too long, then move up to his face. Something about it reminds Franco of a baby owl. He chews on the insides of his cheeks at the thought.

“I don’t know it that well,” he says.

Paulo tilts his head to the side, chin up and considering.

“Well,” he says, “it’ll be more fun that way.”

Franco breathes out a laugh, wondering on what planet getting lost could possibly be fun. The idea tickles a nervousness within him, but it’s not necessarily unpleasant. Before any rationale can kick in, he finds himself contemplating it, shrugging his shoulders and nodding along in agreement. Paulo’s face brightens immediately, and the heel of his foot catches Franco by his tailbone in a jolt of euphoria, happy like a child finally getting his way.

“It’s a date,” Paulo jokes.

“Yeah,” Franco says, finally turning back. He reaches behind himself, grazing his fingers over where it hurts. “It’s a date.”

*

It’s early August by the time they get back to Palermo.

Franco doesn’t mind the city—it’s certainly not home, but it’s something, like it could be home if he settles himself down here long enough, finds something to hold onto. Driving through unfamiliar streets in search of the hotel the club has temporarily put Paulo and his mother up in, he very much doubts that will happen—not least because Sannino has already made it very clear that he’s in no way part of his plans for the upcoming season.

Franco sighs, weighing up the idea of going home, wondering if lasting a mere eight months is as humiliating as it sounds in his head. He’d be welcomed home like a lover home from a war well lost, like the prodigal son who returned home with nothing but the pain of hunger in his stomach, like—

“Franco!”

Franco jumps at the sound of his name and the bang of a fist against the passenger window. His pulse thunders as he ducks his head to see Paulo standing there, waving a hand at him comically and shouting at him to open the door. He does, slipping down in his seat and looking away as Paulo gets in. Beside him, Paulo is already talking, speaking quickly about the view from his hotel room, about the nice breeze in the late-morning air and the fact he thought Franco wasn’t going to show up.

Franco frowns at that last part but says nothing.

They drive for a while, the radio filling a lull in Paulo’s one-sided conversation as Franco absentmindedly picks at the hinges of his sunglasses at every red light they catch, not really with anywhere particular in mind. It’s probably the first time since he’d learnt to drive that Franco’s afforded himself the luxury of the freedom that it gives him, gliding through the streets in the empty-reaching sunshine, the window opened just an inch.

“I could get used to this,” Paulo says, quieter than usual and catching Franco’s attention. His head is turned away, his profile a cut out in Franco’s view of the harbour. “Living by the sea,” he clarifies.

“It’s not bad,” Franco says. He tightens his grip on the steering wheel, the bones of his knuckles showing through. “Makes for a nice postcard, I suppose.”

It’s not a joke, but Paulo laughs. He does that a lot; laughs at things Franco doesn’t intend to be funny. It’s a nice little ego boost, if anything. Franco could be doing with a few of those.

When Franco gets bored and Paulo gets hungry, they go for something to eat. Franco knows a few places that he likes, but Paulo insists that they try somewhere new, somewhere different. That’s how they end up in some little hole-in-the-wall café that the sun has bleached all dream-like and old. Though he knows barely a word of Italian, Paulo’s enthusiasm and finger-pointing gets him through much better than the carefully rehearsed lines that Franco mumbles out, slow and low, and then repeats for a second time, the waitress leaning in closer.

“You know,” Paulo says as they wait, “I used to think you were actually a mute.”

Franco, with his cheek resting against his knuckles, stops people watching. His neck feels stiff when he turns to look at Paulo, trying to judge whether or not he’s telling the truth. Sure, it’s not preposterous, but still.

“Yeah?”

Paulo hums and picks up a sachet of sugar. He fiddles with it until it bursts open over the table, little granules of sugar going everywhere, and then licks the pad of his forefinger and presses it into the sugar. Franco just stares at him, blinking.

“What?” Paulo asks. “Like you’ve never done it before.”

Paulo isn’t off with his assumption, but Franco presses his lips together and his arms to his chest, not giving him the satisfaction of truly knowing.

Paulo knows.

*

Sometimes, only sometimes, Franco feels as though he is an adult-shaped approximation of himself made from those brightly coloured building blocks he once played with as a child, always only seconds away from one self-inflicted swipe to the middle.

*

“I’m leaving,” Franco says quietly. “For Spain. Madrid. I’m going to Rayo on loan.”

Paulo, who has sprawled himself out on Franco’s living-room floor, stops swinging his feet in the air. His whole body moves, foot almost catching the leg of the coffee table, and settles down on his side. It’s amazing, Franco thinks, how quickly Paulo has made a space for himself here. It’s a little unnerving, too. He doesn’t remember inviting him in the for the first time, doesn’t remember what it’s like without his presence in here.

“That’s shit,” is Paulo’s initial prognosis, quickly followed by, “Who am I going to bother while you’re gone?”

Franco thumbs the buttons of the controller in his hands. On the screen, some in-game animation continues to play.

“You don’t bother me,” he says, and it’s not a lie.

“Must be doing something wrong then,” Paulo says, cheeky and rolls over onto his back. He scratches at his hip, exposed where his shirt has ridden up, and begins to wriggle. He pulls a face, even more intense than usual, and wedges a hand beneath himself. He pulls out a piece of Lego and holds it in front of his face. “Might get myself some of this, y’know, to remember you by.”

“Yeah?” Franco asks.

“Absolutely,” Paulo says, and aims the little red brick right at Franco’s face.

*

Madid is—

Madrid is fine. Rayo is fine. They’re both fine without him, he quickly realises, sailing through the season like a ghost.

Same shit, different place, he tells himself, scuffing his boot on the dressing-room floor. Around him, his teammates celebrate. They’ve achieved survival, and not through the skin of their teeth, labouring away around midtable and threatening to do something fantastic like finish eighth. Franco is happy, he is, but he is a footballer, and he is selfish, and none of this has anything to do with him.

“Oh, cheer up,” Chori says afterwards.

They’re drinking beers in Chori’s back garden, and Franco can hear his younger kids screaming from the inside about not wanting to go to bed. Franco kind of wants to sleep. Maybe he’ll wake up from this nightmare and he’ll be home again.

“Why?”

“Because it won’t be like this forever,” Chori says. “Nothing will.”

“I just—I want to go home,” he says.

“Why? Because it’ll be easier?” he asks sternly, lifting a little out of his seat, like he’s ready to pounce. He waves his hand dismissively as he sinks back down. “There’s no guarantee of that. When I went back to River…things had changed. They hadn’t waited for me. What makes you so certain Belgrano will be any different?”

Franco presses his lips together and stares out into the garden. He doesn’t know, not for definite, but it has to be better than this. It has to be.

“I’m not trying to be cruel, Franco.”

Franco turns to Chori. The light is starting to dim, but Franco can make out every inch of his face perfectly. He’s become a good friend over the season, taking Franco into his life, into his family, and keeping his chin up when history started to repeat itself. He’s seen a lot in his career, and Franco’s certainly not the first twenty-four-year-old he’s come across thinking that the world is ending because he hasn’t found what he’s looking for yet.

“I know,” Franco says, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.

*

He watches the game against Fiorentina and wishes he hadn’t.

Maybe he’ll get a game in Serie B.

*

“Do my eyes deceive me? Has Franco Vazquez finally gotten himself a half-decent haircut?” is what Paulo says by way of greeting on their first day back at training.

Beside him, Abel laughs, slapping Franco so hard between the shoulders that he stumbles forward, catching himself just in time. No sooner has he regained his balance, Paulo hooks an arm around his neck, pulling him down into a half-hug. Franco curls his fingers around Paulo’s biceps, thinking about prying him off but relenting, sinking into the embrace a little until Paulo shoves him away again, laughing.

“We’ve got a lot of catching up to do, man,” Paulo says, tapping the centre of Franco’s chest. It’s how he likes to get his attention.

That they do, Franco thinks.

*

They pick up where they left off, sliding easily into a routine that involves Ezequiel less and less, his entire world now understandably being taken up by his new-born daughter. Franco finds he doesn’t mind this new arrangement, actually quite likes being the sole focus of Paulo’s attention when they’re not at training. Paulo has become quite the popular figure in the dressing-room, and he doesn’t follow Franco around anymore, doesn’t need to, but he’s always somewhere close, taunting and teasing and whooping with every nutmeg.

A lot has changed, Franco finds.

There’s a new manager for one, and a myriad of new faces in the squad for another. For the first couple of weeks, Franco observes them from a safe distance, lets Paulo step in front of him and take the heat of their interactions. It works quite well, mostly because everyone loves Paulo from the moment he opens his mouth around them, and Franco’s not abrasive enough to undo any of his good work.

“So,” Paulo begins, “how was Madrid?”

They’re at a café by the seafront, one that Paulo frequents with his mother on days off, and this time it is Franco that’s managed to spill sugar all over the table. He pushes it around with his finger, making shapes and patterns, and keeps his eyes down.

“It’s very big,” Franco says.

“That’s it?” Paulo queries, bubble of his voice bursting.

Franco shrugs.

“Planning a visit?” he asks.

“Not by the way you’re fucking selling it,” Paulo says.

Franco slides down in his seat until his knees find Paulo’s. His eyes flick up when he feels the touch, wondering if Paulo feels it too. If he has, if it bothers him, he doesn’t let it show. He just sits there, face towards where their waiter keeps disappearing, and drums his fingers rhythmically on the table, impatient.

“I bought a Lego set,” Paulo says.

It seems a strange segue out of their last conversation, but Franco is too surprised to care. Paulo doesn’t seem to understand where this reaction has come from.

“I told you I would,” he reminds him.

“I know, but—” It was a joke, he thinks. You were teasing me and you were never going to actually get one.

“I like it. Mum likes it too, says it keeps me quiet,” Paulo says, cutting Franco off. “For a little while, at least.”

Instead of the magnitude of questions he doesn’t really want the answers to, Franco asks, “How many pieces?”

“Just over a thousand.”

Franco tucks his arms around himself, mutters, “Amateurish,” and probably deserves the kick Paulo aims at his shin beneath the table.

*

They go to Austria for preseason.

Like everything else, it stays on Franco’s varying spectrum of fine—fine in the fake nonchalant way he musters to avoid conversation, and not the tense way he tells his mother how he’s doing over the phone. She pesters him sometimes, all the while still staying cautious of the glass-fragile surface of his ego, already shattered but dutifully held together by masking tape.

Tonight is not one of those times, however, and Franco steps back into his and Paulo’s shared hotel room relatively unscathed. He throws his phone onto the bed before him and collapses down face-first, feet hanging from the edge. He feels the weight of Paulo’s presence dip the bed on his side and squinches his face shut against the pillow, preparing for the inevitable slap to come down between his shoulders, fuelled by a power he’s not sure Paulo knows that he possesses quite yet.

It never comes. Instead, Paulo’s fingers slide over the back of his neck, gentle. Franco freezes from the shock of it.

When he does move, he goes slowly, twisting the top half of his body in Paulo’s direction. His brows are drawn, and Paulo’s hand has slipped to the curve of his shoulder. Franco fights every muscle in his body not to shrug it off.

“Do you wanna play Far Cry?” Paulo asks.

Franco pulls his imagination back to himself, nods.

*

One self-inflicted swipe to the middle, Franco thinks.

*

He’s not in the squad for the new season.

Gattuso, at the very least, has the presence of mind to tell him to his face, speaking slowly, with his hands, and Franco knows he’s being unintentionally patronised. It’s just something that happens when you’re shy, when you’re quiet. Franco fidgets in his seat across from him, the skin of his cuticles stinging with his pulse, weighing up the idea of demanding why he’s not in the squad but ultimately keeping his mouth shut, concluding there to be no difference in not being needed and not being wanted.

It doesn’t hit him until he gets home, until he’s picking up a half-finished Lego bridge and smashing it against the far wall, little pieces flying everywhere. He breathes heavily in the centre of his living-room, shoulders shuddering with every breath that he takes. He thinks about what Chori had said, about Belgrano not waiting for him, thinks, anything has got to be better than this.

Lego is still scattered over the floor when Paulo shows up. He doesn’t say anything, knows better than that, but he doesn’t give Franco much of a choice when it comes to the barbeque he’s having back at his. “Mum insisted that you come,” Paulo says, eyes jumping between Franco and the bricks on the floor, itching to make a comment but stopping himself every time. “Sometimes I think she prefers you to me,” he jokes, because it’s obviously not true. Franco’s seen the way Alicia looks at her son, and it never fails to make him homesick.

“It’s because I’m quiet,” Franco says anyway. “All mums love that.”

Paulo’s in total “cheer-up-Mudo” mode for the rest of the night, and Franco doesn’t even try to stop him. He sticks closer to him than usual, playing Rodrigo in the garden and bouncing up to grab Franco more food every time his plate is empty. Franco lets the attention warm up from the inside-out, sitting there in a cloud of synthetic happiness as Paulo’s mum watches him from across the table, looking at him like she knows something he doesn’t.

“I think I’ll phone my agent in the morning,” Franco says. They’re sitting in Paulo’s car outside his house. “Tell him I want a move back to Argentina in January.” He can stick out another couple of months here, he’s decided, keep his head down, train, and go back in the winter window.

Paulo’s seat squeaks beneath him as he moves.

“Back to Belgrano,” he says, nodding.

He sounds—sad, Franco registers. A weird sort of sad. Regretful, maybe.

“Back to Belgrano,” he parrots, letting the thought course through him. The corners of his lips twitch into a smile. I’m going home, he thinks.

*

They don’t talk about the goals Paulo isn’t scoring, about the price-tag hanging heavy around his neck. Franco adjudges it to be off-limits, something Paulo would rather leave behind him. Franco’s alright with that, being a welcome distraction—he’s going home, after all, and that trumps any emotion that might begin to descend as he sits up in the stands of the Renzo Barbera, watching on as Abel and Kyle and Andrea fire them to a fitful start to life in Serie B.

They don’t talk about it until—

“I’m never going to score again,” Paulo moans one afternoon after training.

They’re still on the pitch, by themselves, practicing freekicks. Franco flaps around in the middle of the goal, missing the fearlessness of a proper goalkeeper to dive too low or high, constantly fidgeting with Samir’s gloves that slip off occasionally, too big for his hands. Paulo complains with a hand thrown into the air, saying a real goalkeeper would have caught that one as it whistles past Franco and bulges the back of the net.

“I’ve never scored here,” Franco says, like it’ll help, and Paulo pulls a face. “What?”

“Nothing,” Paulo mumbles, sounding oddly like Franco.

He takes the ball by his feet and sits down with it, legs splayed out in front of him on the grass. He looks very young—younger than he has for a while, and Franco thinks this can’t be good. Paulo’s a kid, and he’s wilting under a pressure he can’t begin to imagine. Worst of all, there’s nothing Franco can do but throw off his gloves and join him.

“Go on,” Paulo says, “give me a speech about how everything’ll be alright in the end, that I’m fantastic and just need to be patient.”

Franco quirks up an eyebrow, trying to keep his face soft.

“You think I give speeches?” he asks, giving Paulo a little nudge with his elbows.

Paulo unsuccessfully tries to bite down a smile.

“No,” he says.

“Sounds like you know exactly what you need to hear to me,” Franco says. “Worst comes to the worst, you can always go home. Like me.”

Something tells Franco that Paulo isn’t so keen on the idea as he is, not least by the dismissive little noise he lets out as he picks up the ball from his lap and chucks it in the direction of the goal. It trundles slowly wide, agonisingly close. Paulo huffs.

“That would be some Romeo and Juliet type shit,” Paulo says, making Franco laugh.

“Neither of us are that stupid,” Franco points out.

“True,” Paulo says, then stops. His grin is devilish and Franco knows what’s coming before he even opens his mouth. “You just look it.”

“Very funny,” Franco says, deadpan, and reaches over to pinch at the hair on Paulo’s thigh. His hoot of laughter is interrupted by a yelp of pain, and then he’s on top of Franco, and their wrestling like school children on the grass, football and gloves and freekicks forgotten.

*

When Iachini arrives, something is different. Something changes.

For the first time in a long time, Franco thinks twice about going home and starts thinking about picking up those brightly coloured blocks to put himself together again.

*

The changing rooms on the edge of the Comunale di Santa Flavia pitch are small, cramped, and filled with far too many adolescent hormones for Franco to handle. There’s also an overwhelming smell of aftershave too expensive for these kids to be wearing, and Franco keeps losing track of them all, their arms all skinny and their haircuts all atrociously the same. God, Franco thinks as he laces up his boots, how fucking old am I.

It’s Iachini’s idea to have him play with the primavera side. After some teasing from Paulo and pride-swallowing from himself, he settles into the idea, into training, and there’s something oddly satisfying about being the only one in a dressing-room that can grow a proper beard. (“No you can’t,” Paulo scoffs, pinching at his bare chin.) Most of all, he is given a new sense of importance, something he hasn’t felt since a warm day in December, his heart as heavy as the armband around his bicep.

So there is hope, increasingly, and there is Paulo. And there is Paulo’s hope. And Palermo’s, spreading like wildfire throughout the city.

By the turn of the year, they are first, and they are not for moving.

*

It’s been a year. An entire year.

Paulo rattles a shot off the inside of the bar at training and Franco stops it when it bounces back in his direction. Lips pursed, Franco rolls it back to Paulo’s feet, and Paulo tries again.

*

For Franco’s twenty-fifth birthday, Paulo takes him out for dinner.

(“How very romantic,” Abel says with a laugh when Franco mistakenly tells him his birthday plans.

“He didn’t even get me a birthday card,” Ezequiel says, feigning distress.

“God, get over that already, Chiqui!”)

It’s not a fancy restaurant (“But you could’ve worn something nicer than jeans and a t-shirt, Mudito.”) but it’s nice, nestled in the centre of a small town just outside of Palermo. It was Paulo’s mother’s idea, Paulo admits as they sit, voice a little jumpier than usual. He keeps playing with the rolled-up sleeve of his shirt as well, Franco notices, and his unease spreads between them until Franco is sat low in his chair, the cross on his necklace pinched tight between his thumb and forefinger. The metal feels molten against his fingers.

“There’s not going to be singing waiters, is there?” Franco asks, half as a joke, half curious.

“Are you kidding? You’d die,” Paulo says, laughing, and the truth is Franco probably would. Right after killing Paulo first. “You can ease up.”

And so can you, Franco thinks but does not say.

The meal is nice, but the walk they take afterwards is better despite the cold air that’s starting to bite. They find a park, and Franco wishes they’d brought a ball, but settles on taking a seat by some creepy-looking fountain that Paulo seems to find hilarious.

“It looks like it’s pissing!” Paulo says in his defence.

Franco shakes his head, faintly amused.

They sit close, the outside of Franco’s thigh pressed to Paulo’s. While he’s wishing Franco yet another happy birthday, the wine beginning to talk, he slaps a hand down on Franco’s knee, and for one wild moment, Franco thinks about putting his hand down too, covering Paulo’s completely, linking their fingers together and squeezing tight. He turns, looks at Paulo’s lips, then his eyes, and thinks, I could kiss you by accident.

He spooks himself into standing.

“Are you alright?” Paulo asks, standing too.

“I’m freezing,” Franco says.

It’s the truth, but maybe not the whole truth. At least, for once, it doesn’t seem like Paulo can tell the difference.

*

After four hundred and six days, it happens like this:

Franco has been on the pitch for two, three minutes when Achraf clips a hopeful ball down the left wing, the ball bouncing up on the unkempt grass, taking one, two, three touches to get under control. There’s barely any time for it, so he knocks the ball into Paulo’s path inside the eighteen-yard box, perfectly weighted, and watches as he takes it first time on his left foot. He almost doesn’t register that the ball has hit the back of the net, the reaction of the crowd delayed in his head, not until he sees Paulo sprinting by him towards the bench, his shirt discarded.

When it hits him, when it really hits him, the relief sends his eyes skyward. Thank God, he thinks, fists clenching in victory. Thank God.

Walking around aimlessly after the final whistle, high off second-hand euphoria, Franco feels a familiar tap to his chest. He turns automatically, wrapping his arms around Paulo’s shoulders and kissing his temple. “Well done,” he says, pulling back, and sliding his hands to cup Paulo’s face. His cheeks are fleshy beneath his fingertips, and Franco has never been so happy for another human being since his nephew was born.

Paulo claps his hands on Franco’s ribs.

“Thanks, Mudito,” Paulo says and Franco thinks, the pleasure was all mine.

*

The following week, on a cold night in Campania, they start up front together for the first time, and Paulo returns the favour.

 _Nice one, kid. A hug from Athens_ is the message he gets afterwards from Chori.

_*_

It happens again a week later.

It’s Franco first. He’s loitering in the box from a failed attack when Paulo picks up the ball on the edge of the box and swings in an inch-perfect cross. He barely has to glance it goalward for the ball to go looping in over the head of the goalkeeper. He goes to him straightaway, finger pointing in his direction, and opens his arms to him. Paulo makes a half-hearted attempt of jumping up into his arms, his thighs sliding down either side of Franco’s hips as he squeezes him tight.

For his goal, Franco releases Paulo beyond the last defender with more of a low chip forward than a pass, the ball going right in his path, right where he wants it. It’s a tight angle, but Paulo slots it in the far corner, right inside the post. After a year of missing those chances, this one feels good. After a year of watching him miss those chances, Franco feels pretty damn good too as he buries his face in the side of Paulo’s neck, whispering congratulations.

“I don’t know what kind of telepathy shit you two have going on,” Edgar says, hooking an arm around each of their necks, “but keep it up.”

“I can’t believe it,” Paulo says later, standing with a pool cue across the table from Franco.

Franco straightens up from where he’s been bent forward over the table, leans on his cue.

“Can’t believe what?”

“That all this time, all I needed was you,” Paulo says in a sing-songy voice.

It’s a joke, of course, but there’s an undercurrent of truth that softens his features and eyes, sincerity in his words breaking through to the surface. Franco’s not entirely sure what he should say to that, so he laughs, breathy, and shakes his head like usual. Outwardly, he dismisses it, but inside, it sits with him—it sits with him for a very long time.

*

One morning before training, Franco finds Paulo standing in the corridor with a pair of hiking boots.

“Do I want to know?” he asks.

Just as Paulo is about to speak, Abel appears through the mail room doors, a box labelled to Kyle Lafferty in his hands. It’s football boots from his sponsor. He takes them out and shoves them into Franco’s arms.

“What—”

“Just hide them, Mudito,” Abel says, as Paulo rams the hiking boots into the box.

Once he’s done, Abel disappears back into the mail room. Franco stares at the door, then at Paulo.

“Please?” Paulo adds belatedly.

Franco’s not going to say no to him, is he?

*

In the end, Franco scores the goal that wins them the league.

With an assist from Paulo, of course.

*

It’s bright, too bright, when Franco opens his eyes, and a man is talking.

He lies there for a moment, squinting up at the ceiling, trying to recall why his head feels like his brain is swelling right out of his skull. He’d been drinking last night, he deduces foggily, celebrating—celebrating winning the league. This is one of those good hangovers then, well worth the impending misery of the next twelve hours, if he’s lucky. Even the man talking is being quietly considerate of his feeble state.

Franco sits up, a blanket sliding off his chest down to his waist. It takes one, two, three blinks for him to realise that he’s in Paulo’s living-room, on his couch. It takes another couple of seconds for him to realise that he’s not alone. Paulo’s mother is sitting on the couch adjacent, not looking at him, but at the news anchor on the television, her little dog on her lap. It’s the dog that notices him first and begins to yap.

Franco cringes at the noise.

“Good morning, Franco.”

Franco’s face warms with embarrassment as he smiles back timidly, hoping if he prays hard enough, the ground will open up and swallow him whole. He’s in no such luck today, it seems, and he remains exactly where he is.

“I—”

“Mama! Where is the ibuprofen? My head is killing me,” comes Paulo’s voice, but Franco’s not sure where it’s coming from, only that it’s very loud, and if his mother wasn’t in the room, he’d be telling Paulo to shut the fuck up. “Never mind, I got it!”

Franco whimpers slightly as he reaches up to rub at his eyes.

“Must’ve got it from listening to his own voice,” Franco mumbles.

“What was that, Mudo?” Paulo asks, appearing in his line of sight like magic.

Balancing a cup of water fizzing with painkillers, Paulo shoves Franco’s feet off the couch, sits down in the space he’s vacated for himself, then drags them back into his lap. The blanket is not covering them, and his socks are the only piece of clothing Franco seems to have lost, so Paulo takes the opportunity to wrap his hand absently around one of Franco’s ankles, loosening and tightening his grip intermittently. It’s calming. Franco lies back down.

He doesn’t want Paulo to stop touching him, hasn’t in a long time.

“Did you boys have fun last night?”

Franco stares at Paulo, hopeless.

“It was great,” he answers. “We barely had to buy a drink in town.”

Snippets of the night fade in and out of Franco’s memory as morning turns to midday. He barely moves from the couch, Paulo’s hands around his ankles anchoring him down, leaving the rest of him boneless and light but for the hammering in his head that soon too lessens to a dull ache. He’s not too ashamed to accept the painkillers and water Paulo’s mother hands him.

“Sorry about leaving you on the couch, by the way,” Paulo says. “You were too heavy to drag upstairs.”

“Going to take me upstairs, were you?” Franco blurts.  

“You know what I mean,” Paulo says, finally lifting his hands from Franco.

No, Franco thinks, I don’t. 

*

Paulo won’t stop laughing. He’s been like this since they got home. He’s practically vibrating with it.

Franco looks up from his Lego instructions manual.

“What?”

“ _You_ , of all people, _talking_ yourself into getting a red card. Amazing. This is the best day of my life.”

Franco shakes his head and looks down, hiding a smile from Paulo.

*

They’re at a training camp again, and the room in which Iachini has been giving his team meetings has been taken over by Franco, Paulo and Ezequiel, the World Cup final projected onto the screen that usually bares tactics and drills. Ezequiel pulls a flag from seemingly nowhere and sits with it around his shoulders, while Paulo has decked himself out in an Argentina jersey, his rosary hanging outside of it for the occasion. Franco is oddly endeared by both of them, but he keeps this to himself as he chews down his nails and tries not to be sick.

When Argentina lose, Franco just sort of…sits there. He just sits, and he listens, frozen stiff like those nightmares he used to have as a kid. He slides his hands over his face, thinks, this is ten times worse, because this is real.

Off to his side, he hears Ezequiel curse within an inch of life, the tell-tale sound of chairs clattering together as he kicks them in frustration. Perhaps naively, Franco expects something similar from Paulo. When he lifts his head, however, Paulo is just standing there, staring at the screen as the German players collect their medals. His fists are clenched, and Franco is too familiar with Paulo’s silent rage to go any closer, knowing he could, and probably will, long after he’ll assume it to be safe, go off.

It happens later, when they’re heading back to their room, but not in the way Franco expects it. He doesn’t expect Paulo pushing him up against the wall beside the door either, crowding into him all in one movement.

It’s a bit comical, because Franco is so much bigger than Paulo, but there’s something in the intense sort of way Paulo is staring up at him that cuts him right down to size. His face is right there, taking up his entire field of vision, and Franco can almost hear the buzz of the static in his head, fear and adrenaline flickering across his face as he steps even closer. He sways a little, then braces his hands against the wall by Franco’s shoulders, the momentum of his rage lost to the ether.

“What are you doing, Paulo?” Franco says, his voice small, uncertain.

Paulo slides a hand from the wall to hold the back of Franco’s neck, his grip tight. He pulls Franco down an inch.

“I don’t know,” he says, and leans in, pressing his mouth to Franco’s.

Franco’s body locks up, his hands hanging limply by his sides, unsure as to what to do. Panic explodes through his head when he feels Paulo start to pull away, so he makes some puny, hungry sound and leans down, opening his mouth over Paulo’s.

With that, Paulo falls forward a little, pressing himself further into Franco, and Franco further into the wall, and Franco just lets him. Doesn’t even try to fight it. He kisses Paulo back like he’s been starving for it, hooked on it the moment he gets a taste. He moves his hands and settles them on Paulo’s waist, skittery and unsure at first, and then remember every goal celebration, every celebratory hug after head tennis during training, and suddenly he’s not so unsure anymore.

Paulo pulls away first, blinking against the sharp, humid breaths Franco keeps puffing out into his face. They pant together, out of sync, and Franco tips forward, forehead coming to rest on the top of Paulo’s head. He sucks in a breath and slides his mouth over the warm skin he finds.

“Paulo,” Franco says gently. “Paulo.”

“You have no idea how long I’ve—”

A noise from down the hall stops Paulo in his tracks. Rounding a corner, they see Ezequiel stomp into his hotel room and slam the door shut behind him. Franco’s bones rattle at the thought of almost being caught.

“Come on,” Paulo says, letting his hands fall from the wall. He wraps his fingers around Franco’s wrist and begins to pull. “Come on.”

Inside their hotel room, it’s Paulo’s back that hits the wall. Franco presses himself to Paulo, feels the muscles tense on his stomach and tight along his arms, their bodies not lining up yet still oddly satisfying. Paulo flattens his hand on the small of Franco’s back, and Franco moves with it, wondering in some closed-off part of his mind what else he’d do so insentiently if Paulo were to ask.

Anything, he thinks to himself wildly, curling himself over to find Paulo’s mouth again. You’d do anything.

*

For one terrifying moment after he wakes up, Franco’s struck with the thought that they’re not going to talk about it. He’s alone in his bed, but across the room he can see the mound of sheets under which Paulo sleeps, one of his arms flung carelessly over the edge of the mattress. He rolls over and stares up at the ceiling, wondering in panicky bursts if that was it, that’s all he was ever going to get. He thinks about never getting to kiss Paulo again, and suddenly he feels like he can’t breathe.   

Paulo wakes a couple of minutes into his panic, rising groggily, and sits by Franco’s feet at the bottom of his bed. He sits hunched, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, hair in total disarray. His body is twisted slightly, tattooed skin pulling tight over his ribs, warm from the light seeping in through the windows. Franco wants to reach out and touch him, but instead he sits up and pulls his knees to his chest, arms hugging them tight.

“I want you, just so you know,” Paulo says plainly, like some sort of take it or leave it deal. “I like you,” he then amends, softening down when he catches the look on Franco’s face.

Franco purses his lips and sucks on his teeth.

“Mudo.”

Paulo comes crawling towards him, stops just as they are face to face. Franco looks up, ducks his head back down, then looks up again. Paulo looks almost sympathetic, like he knows what’s going on in Franco’s head, like he’s really that easy.

And maybe he is. Maybe that’s not necessarily a bad thing.

“I—” Franco sighs. “I don’t—”

He kisses Paulo instead of finishing his sentence.

*

What they do, together, on the pitch—no one sees it coming, not really. Not even them.

*

At the end of October, they go on a nine-game unbeaten run.

It feels glorious, like flying, like nothing can touch them. The praise comes. The points come. Conte comes, too, casting a curious eye over the squad, talking to Franco in private but not Paulo, his choice of representing Argentina much more resolute. Franco isn’t particularly sentimental over the entire thing, not even when he wakes him, the fading memories of his mother’s lullabies suddenly making sense to him in the dead of night, Paulo’s arm slung heavy over his chest.

“Do whatever you want,” Paulo says, which isn’t the answer Franco wants, but the one everyone seems to be giving him.

He’s not stupid. He knows, in the grand scheme of things, that most people are apathetic at best towards the choice he’ll ultimately make—he’s not Paulo Dybala, after all, not inching towards double figures in the goal scoring charts before Christmas, curling in left-footed shots he has no right to be scoring. Franco’s just as in awe of him as everybody else, watching him step out of the darkness and into the golden sun, quietly content in the knowledge he nudged him from the gloom.

The fact is this: Franco doesn’t mind being a footnote in the growing legend of Paulo Dybala, he just doesn’t want that to be all he gets.

*

They’re in the shower, and Paulo is washing mud off Franco’s skin.

His hands are slick with soap, rubbing in circles over the top of his back, and it’s not exactly what Franco had been expecting when Paulo had trailed after him into the shower. It’s nice, though, the pressure firm and sure on muscles he didn’t know were aching.

After about half a minute, Paulo’s hands wander lower, stopping right above the swell of his ass, thumbs really starting to dig into his skin. It’s not like Paulo hasn’t touched him like this before, like he hasn’t touched Paulo in exactly the same way, it just feels different today, less rushed. Paulo’s palms then slide all the way back up to Franco’s shoulders, slowly encouraging him to pad himself around. He blinks down at Paulo, droplets of water clinging to his lashes.

Paulo flattens his palms on Franco’s chest.

“You should fuck me,” Paulo says.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Franco says weakly.

“I thought you liked that.”

Franco feels a warmth coil in his stomach, and Paulo knows that he’s right.

*

It feels like the end of something when Ezequiel leaves.

They stay behind, the both of them, and help him clean out his locker at the training ground. It’s a weird sort of sadness that hangs between them; he wants to leave, they know that, but not like this—not with Zamparini spitting poison in his direction, threatening to have him rot in the stands for not signing a new contract.

“This is so fucking shit,” Paulo says in the only black and white way he knows how. “What an asshole.”

Ezequiel shrugs. He’s being strangely diplomatic about the whole thing, and Franco finds it a little unnerving—not that Paulo doesn’t remonstrate enough on his behalf already. It’s just strange, like he’s been defeated already, and that’s not the Ezequiel Franco was buddied up with on day one.

When Paulo is off shoving some stuff in the bin for Ezequiel, Franco hangs back in the locker room, hands tucked in his pockets. He clears his throat, catching Ezequiel’s attention, and rubs a hand over his chin as he _ums_ and _ahs_ , thinking of the right thing to say.

“When I first came here, when I was playing like shit, you told the press to get off my back and give me time,” Franco says, and Ezequiel’s face cocks to the side, curious as to where this is going. “I never—I never thanked you for that, for sticking up for me.”

Ezequiel cracks a smile.

“It was nothing, brother,” he says. “Come here.”

Ezequiel extends a hand as though to shake it, but as soon as Franco does, he’s being pulled into his chest, suddenly wrapped up in his arms. He hugs him back, tighter, until he feels Paulo trying to wedge his way in, and lets him. This was Paulo’s beginning, Franco remembers, the three of them together, and now it’s at an end.

It’s the beginning of the end.

*

Playing for Italy feels a bit like letting his dreams run away from him while stealing someone else’s.

Afterwards, Franco’s mother tells him that she loves him, that she’s so proud of him, and does so in Italian. Franco shivers against her embrace, face half-hidden in her hair, and looks at his father. They’re both thinking the same thing.

*

Sometimes the damage is not self-inflicted.

*

Nothing lasts forever, Franco remembers Chori telling him. The good and the bad.

The thought occurs to him the moment before Paulo opens up his mouth to tell him that he wants to leave, that it’s probably going to be to Juventus. “They really want me,” Paulo says, like Franco needs the justification. “I really want to go.”

Franco clicks two blocks of Lego together. He thinks that he falls in love right there with Paulo’s _I really want to go_ , because if it doesn’t hurt, it isn’t love, right?

Paulo watches from the doorway.

“Then go,” Franco says. “No one’s stopping you.” It comes out colder than he intends, but Franco’s heart is breaking, and it’s entirely justified.

“Not even you?” Paulo asks.

“Would you like me to?” Franco asks back.

Paulo’s face twists up a little, like the reality of it is just too cruel to handle. He shakes his head slowly.

“Well then,” Franco says, and turns his attention back to the pieces of Lego on the table in front of him. It’s difficult, though, his hands beginning to tremble from something akin to sadness but a touch more bitter that’s currently bursting in his gut. He feels a bit sick from it, a bit tense. He curls into himself a little more, making himself small.

Paulo moves to him slowly, cautious as though the floor between the door and the table has become a thin sheet of ice. Despite this, he is warm by Franco’s side when he reaches him, his knee grazing up against his as he sits. One of his hands falls into Franco’s lap, fingers stretching to curl around the soft inner part of his thigh and squeeze down gently. Sometimes Franco’s only regret in life is not feeling the touch of Paulo’s hands on him like this sooner.

He lifts his head to look at him.

“Can I help?” Paulo asks softly.

“Yeah,” he says. “Of course.”

*

“Chiqui called, said I should stay here,” Franco tells Paulo, stroking his fingers through his hair. The days are running down, and they’ve both decided it’s probably best to spend them doing nothing. “He said I should work on my martyr complex.”

Paulo winces as though it’s only just hit him what Palermo face without him, but then he laughs, and Franco feels it through his chest where Paulo’s head rests.

*

Maybe it’s fitting that, in the last game they play together, they lose. A homage of sorts to a not-so-distant past.

It doesn’t matter, not really, because they’re safe, but it does matter, sort of, because this is Paulo’s last goodbye. They even give him the armband for the occasion, customised, _non vi dimenticherò mai_ written in soft curves atop of an Argentine flag. He keeps it on even when his shirt comes off, tossed into the crowd, and his teammates gather before the Curva Nord and throw him in the air.

Franco wonders, watching Paulo complete one more lap of the pitch from the shadow of the tunnel, how he’s getting away with all of this. He wonders why nobody hates him for it, not even him. He remembers with a cold stab of guilt his own amicable send off from Belgrano then, how they had wished nothing but the best for him. He had, in some weird bout of madness, wanted them to hate him for leaving, just to know if it would be enough to make him stay, but they would never, in all their warm resignation, do that to him.

Franco feels a tap on his chest. He looks to see Paulo standing by his side, pointing down the tunnel to the pitch and the stands and the clear blue Sicilian sky that opens up above them.

“It’s all yours now, Mudito,” Paulo says, and Franco thinks, _this—this is what I get_.

He puts an arm around Paulo’s shoulders, and Paulo puts an arm around his waist, and together they walk.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you very much for reading!! i'm on [tumblr](https://benyedders.tumblr.com/) if you want to talk/cry over franco.


End file.
